Everything Yields
by Problematic Wesker Stans
Summary: After his ambush in Edonia, Captain Chris Redfield finds himself a coveted prisoner in the underground world of bioweapon slavery. Plaything to the wealthiest patrons and gamblers on earth, he is subjected to unspeakable acts of depravity and violence. But he's not alone.


**Chapter One: The Dog and the Worm**

"Can we become other than what we are?"  
_-Marquis de Sade_

* * *

_Final day of captivity_

* * *

The gun shook in his hand, the tremor running up the length of his arm. His eyes seemed enormous, so much like amber in the dying sun. Chris could see they were watery. He took a step.

"Don't come any closer." Wesker pulled the hammer back.

"We're free." Chris's voice was strained and rasping. He didn't understand, couldn't understand why...

"We are." Wesker nodded solemnly.

"I got you out," Chris said, his eyes darting from the gun to Wesker's face.

"You did." Wesker swallowed. His cheek twitched. His mouth trembled and then cracked into a horrible, wavering smile. "And I will be _forever_ grateful," he said cruelly.

They stared at each other.

"What are you doing?" Chris whispered.

Wesker's nostrils flared. He blinked hard. Something flickered over his vicious features - pain, perhaps, or melancholy. Whatever it was, it was gone in an instant. "I am surviving… at all costs," he said slowly.

"But… I left with you." Chris searched his eyes for something to hold on to, for anything he might grasp. But the memories, the man Wesker had been for all of those months, slipped through his fingers like fine, white sand.

"You were my hostage."

"I wasn't," Chris said, fighting still. "I was never your hostage."

Wesker's jaw tightened. "You were a means to an end."

"That's bullshit. You know that's not-"

"You were disgusting."

"Stop."

Wesker laughed - a short, mocking bark. His eyes narrowed, and he sneered in repulsion. "You were just a _tool_. A crude, ugly tool."

"You can't take what happened back. You can't any of it back."

"I have _always_ hated you." Wesker paused, as if to gather something, perhaps courage. "I hate you now, more than ever before."

Chris took a deep, shuddering breath. "No, you don't."

"What did I tell you, when you were first a _slave_?"

Chris flinched at the word.

"I told you I would do _anything_ to stay alive. I would fight for my enemies… I would prostrate myself before them. I would feign pleasure, and suffer theirs. I would bleed for them and _beg_ for their mercy. So long as it _kept_… _me_… _alive_." He ground out between clenched teeth, his voice thin with sorrow. His pulse jumped in his pale throat. "Alive… so that I might have the opportunity to destroy them."

He raised the gun until it was trained on Chris's face.

"Wesker…don't do this."

"You are my enemy, Chris. You are no longer useful to me... and you know how this ends."

* * *

_2 months, 5 days in captivity_

* * *

"You'll be the jackal," she said, tossing the masques down before them. "And _you_... will be the cat."

A carefully sculpted canine face clattered to the floor before Chris. He looked down at it, briefly. It was black and gold, with heavy winged liner around the cut-out eyes. It was like something painted on the wall of an ancient Egyptian tomb.

He dared a glance at Wesker, kneeling next to him in the same pose of perfect submission.

_On your knees. Hands on thighs. Palms up._ It had been one of the first things they'd taught him...and enforced. Painfully.

The golden mask of a panther stared up at Wesker. Chris saw his hateful, fiery gaze drop and then return to the pair of towering ruby heels, saw the flicker of murderous rage in his serpentine eyes. He knelt though, still and serene; his veneer of obedience was thin, but flawless. Chris envied the ease with which he pretended to be _well-trained_.

Carla Radames was perched gingerly on the bottom bunk bed, afraid to let anything in the cell actually _touch_ her. It was damp and dark where Chris and Wesker were kept, with a single low, yellow light swaying overhead any time one of the armed escorts bumped it.

The bedframe creaked beneath her as she looked at them through narrowed eyes, twisting a glittering ring round and round her middle finger.

"I have some special orders for you tonight." She reached behind herself and dragged a bag across the bed. Chris had been fixated on it since she'd walked in.

There was _always_ a bag when Carla visited.

Sometimes, it was a canvas weapons bag, or a duffle bag full of body armor, or a heavy leather roll of gleaming butcher knives.

Today, it was a black grocery bag. The kind of bag someone left a porn store with, head down and hood up, neon tube lights reflecting off the hood of their car in the middle of another desperate, lonely night.

Chris had learned, very early on in his servitude, that there were only two possible events for which he and Wesker were the entertainment: _fighting_ or _fucking_. A flipped coin spinning in the air, the landing entirely dependent on the host's refined tastes.

Here, at least - wherever _here_ was - there was no blood staining the stone foundation. The hot water tap actually worked. There were real mattresses on the bunk beds, and the food had been more than just _edible_.

Creature comforts were only extended to certain types of pets. Not usually the type a host wanted to see bloody, broken, and half-dead.

As far as he could tell, they were in the cellar of what had to be a privately owned castle - he'd only gotten a glance at the property as the helicopter landed, just before they'd put the blackout over his head. But judging by the reinforced bars, the added enclave with the real toilet and the working shower… the owner of the castle was probably _accommodating _their sort often.

The black grocery bag rustled. Chris knew there weren't any weapons for them tonight; he'd ruled out combat the second Carla had produced the Egyptian masques.

And if fighting wasn't on the itinerary... then there would be _fucking_. The question now was _who_… or worse... _what_.

"Gold body paint," Carla said with no inflection, rifling through the items. A jar dropped to the floor and rolled, bumping against Chris's knee.

"Shampoo…soap…an enema, for the worm…Vaseline… toothbrush..." Chris felt the vibrations as the items fell from Carla's elegantly manicured hands. Wesker would be the victim of someone's pleasure tonight; he felt a guilty sort of relief.

"A razor," she continued. "You've both been very well-behaved lately, so please… no clever incidents. No injuries. The blades will be accounted for, yes?"

Chris heard Wesker exhale.

And then he heard the soft, mocking _hum_ in the back of Carla's throat. Chris finally, warily looked up.

Carla's gaze was locked on _him_ \- her quietly insubordinate golden worm. Her hair, thick and straight, was cut in a sharp bob, and framed her doll face like a curtain of black silk. Her shining cherry lips were tilted to a tight, pinched smile - the same villainous smile Wesker himself used to employ.

Before he was a slave.

"Am I boring you, worm?" she asked.

A beat passed. Long and torturous and silent.

Chris turned to look at Wesker. Behind them, he heard the guards who had escorted Carla into the cell - the unsettling rustle of their uniforms, the clicking of ARs being readied in unison.

"I asked you a question," Carla said again, her tone deceptively light.

_Answer her. _Chris held his own breath until his lungs burned with it. He pressed his knuckles into his thighs, his hands _itching_ to ball into fists. _Fucking answer her..._

But Wesker only glared into Carla's lovely visage… wordlessly defiant. His dangerous eyes flashed in the dim light, his muscles tensed, his jaw tightened. Carla stared back into him, cold and unmoved by his empty posturing.

Theirs was always the meeting of two black holes.

"No," Chris finally said, his voice dry and cracking. "He's only tired."

Carla looked at Chris then, cocking her head.

"He's only tired, _Mistress_," Chris corrected quickly. His eyes dropped back to the stone floor.

"Well, imagine that. The sweet little _dog _is sticking up for the worm." He heard the sickening smirk in Carla's voice. He heard her rise from the bed, and heard her heels echo in the cell as she stepped closer to where they knelt. "Once upon a time, he tried to kill you, didn't he? Not so long ago, was it?"

Chris felt a muscle in his neck spasm. He frowned at the cold stone, willing himself not to speak, not to move so much as a finger. To stay still and swallow the words and not think about them, _don't think, don't speak, don't-_

"It's really very touching that you've worked it out. Your little partnership has been so _lucrative_," Carla continued in the wake of Chris's silence. "My very own dynamic duo."

From the corner of his eye, Chris saw Wesker stiffen, his mouth drawing into that thin, unreadable line. Chris held his breath.

_Don't..._

Carla gestured towards him. "Head back, worm."

After a terrifying game of psychological chicken, Wesker sighed, and obeyed. His jaw clenched, the cruel cut of it outlined in the low light. One of the guards, in full riot gear, pushed the barrel of a gun to his temple.

"You're always surly when your dose is about to run out, aren't you?" Carla asked, cooing. She reached into the pocket of her sleek jacket, pulling out the nasal inhaler she used on him every day. In quick, precise succession, she pumped each of his nostrils twice.

Wesker winced, screwing his eyes shut and gagging. He tried to hang his head, but the guard wrenched it back by a painful fist of his hair.

"Don't you dare," Carla said, her voice a low threat.

Wesker's teeth gnashed. He looked up, his pupils blown out wide, his eyes wild with shock. "What did you put in that?" He sputtered, gasping. A thick string of saliva hung from his chin. His bare chest heaved with frantic, uneven breaths.

Carla looked down at him. "Just your P30, for compliance, and a little something extra to ensure..." she waved a gloved hand, nonchalant. "_Participation_, I suppose."

Chris swallowed. _PT-141_. Carla had used it on him too, in the beginning. Liberally. _Shit. Wesker was going to be useless tonight._

"Do you know what that could do to me, you stupid _bitch_? Do you understand the effects of a vasodilator in my condition?" Wesker roared, lunging forward. Before Chris could react, every weapon in the cell was trained on Wesker's head. The closest guard had kicked Wesker to the ground, a booted foot crushing his chest until he grunted. The muzzle of the AR dug cruelly into his model-sharp cheek, pinning his pretty head to the stone.

At any other time in his life, he would have found immense pleasure in watching a few guys kick the ever-loving shit out of Albert Wesker, and then wipe the floor with his smug, dead face. But now… when he _needed_ him to stay alive and intact, it wasn't funny. It wasn't funny at all.

"Oh, I understand exactly what _this_ vasodilator will do to you," Carla began, calm and sweet. Her dark empty gaze darted down to his crotch, and then back up to his impotently furious eyes. "And I understand that this benefactor, this audience… wants a _true_ performance, and they're willing to pay. They want something otherworldly, a _religious experience_. And I know the dog is good for it. He always looks so pleasantly… _terrorized_ by the games, but you, worm - you haven't been so enthusiastic lately, have you?"

_God, the two of them were almost the same - Wesker and his sequel, Carla. Whine, lecture, brag, repeat. Shut the fuck up… shutupshutupshutup. _Chris stared at the handgun in the guard's side holster as Carla monologued them to death. He calculated the risk, running through a thousand scenarios at once. It was a Five-seveN, twenty-plus-one rounds, a fast Belgian semi-automatic with armor-piercing capability. In a previous life, he had owned one. It was an alright kind of gun, if not a little clumsy.

He sure could kill a few assholes with it, though.

Wesker laughed, a terrible, maniacal sound. "Why not let me have a go at your dried-up cunt, Carla… I'll show you my _enthusiasm_."

The guard ground his heel into Wesker's sternum, forcing the air from his lungs. The muzzle of the AR moved to the center of his forehead.

Chris's heart raced. The guard's gun was even closer than before - only two feet away. So very close, he could almost feel the weight of it in his palm. There were four men behind him, not including the one with the Five-seveN. If he were in a video game, a simulation, he'd distract them by blowing a couple of holes in closest guard's exposed throat, and in the ensuing chaos, he'd take them rest out in about 4 seconds, start to finish.

And then he'd deal with Wesker. And the bitch. Both of them. Somehow. Some way.

In _this_ reality though, the true reality... his gray brains would paint the floor before he'd even yanked the gun from its holster.

"It's alright," Carla soothed the guard, breaking through Chris's thoughts. "He's just an animal, after all." She touched the guard's shoulder. "Sit him up."

Wesker was righted roughly, dragged across the stone to his bloody knees. The guard stepped away. Chris watched the red patches of Wesker's scraped flesh knit back together until his skin was unblemished alabaster once more. He took a deep breath through his nose, ran his hand through his hair and shook his head as if to clear it.

Chris _almost_ smiled. _Still such an arrogant prick. The parts of yourself you choose to hold onto..._

Wesker's open palms returned to rest against this thighs. He fixed his unblinking glare on the wall, looking entirely as if none of _that_ had just happened.

"Your orders, right now, are as follows: the dog will make sure the worm is prepared, as he won't be in any condition to prepare himself in about -" she glanced at her dainty golden watch. "Fifteen minutes."

Wesker stifled a rumbling growl.

Carla exited the cell gracefully, her men following close behind. "Both of you in the body paint. Everywhere, yes? I'll be back to inspect." A slick smile was plastered on her lacquered red lips.

The cell door swung shut and five separate locking mechanisms clinked into place.


End file.
